


The Killer Of A Mindset and the Mindset of The Killer

by thegirlwholikestowrite



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Attempted Murder, Blood, Brutal Murder, Child Abuse, Graphic Description of Corpses, Guns, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knives, M/M, Murder, Other, Past Abuse, Past Violence, Serial Killers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwholikestowrite/pseuds/thegirlwholikestowrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan Howell likes killing, not because it's brutal, but because it is simple. So when he comes across someone very far from simple with the intentions of killing him, he discovers he isn't as strong as he thought he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Killer Of A Mindset and the Mindset of The Killer

**Author's Note:**

> So, hi!   
> I haven't posted anything in a while.i had some very bad personal issues and a very awful writers block, and I came up with this. It isn't the best but hope you guys enjoy it.

He pulled at his jacket, rain drops falling on the smooth black leather on his back. He quickened his pace, a wicked grin on his face, hands in his pockets. He had grown to get used to the feeling, dried blood under his fingernails and the blade still in his pocket. It gave him pleasure, power. He exited the alley, eyes searching the deserted street.   
He was an expert in his job. His cold brown eyes lacked emotion, fast enough to finish it in under five minutes, stealthy enough to watch their suffering and enjoy it, and not get caught. The steel of the blade reflected his pride.   
He had stopped counting bodies a long time ago, it was just unnecessary torture. First it was a disaster. Something always followed him around with the people he killed; a picture, a smell, their one last breath. It clung to his skin and always found a new life within him, it crawled its way up his throat, and he threw up countless times, the taste of blood on his lips. It wasn't as bad in the morning but when it was night and he moon set its tent high up in the sky, every crime lived on inside their killer.   
Every single person he had killed continued living inside of him while he died everyday trying to kick them out of his system.   
Today's job was easier than he thought. Young girl, jet black hair falling over her shoulders, around her twenties. Her bright blue eyes begged him. But mercy was a foreign concept and his stigmatic behaviour commanded him to hit a little harder, push her deeper into death. He had caused pain, broke a couple ribs, then pushed the knife inside her skin with practiced ease, finding the right spot the first try.   
He wasn't a psychopath. He didn't kill for fun and he had stopped killing for money a long time ago. He killed for the simplicity. Simply if you shot at someone's temples and pushed a blade inside them, right over their heart, between their ribcage, or slit below their chin, they would take a one last raspy breath. Then it would end.   
It was simple. And he found pleasure in doing so.   
He lifted his chin up, easily shrugging off the weight of what he had just done. The wind picked up speed as Dan took an abrupt turn, choosing a different route to go home, to return the the dimly lit apartment he called home. The city lights illuminated his vision and his smile widened. It was a big city, London. Endless possibilities beyond his imagination.   
He didn't like to label himself or choose a plan, but as any other serial killer, he had the type. Innocent, naive, black hair, begging blue eyes, never the type to fight back, only silent tears.   
He watched his victims for a couple of days, he was never suspicious, he never made his victims uneasy about his presence. He knew how to hide himself behind shadows and disguise his cold blooded thoughts behind a sweet smile. He didn't have the serial killer look, so sweet and kind, he easily got away with watching them from the next table at Starbucks and following them home on a quiet night.   
The rain fell on his face, washing away the too little guilt he had. He had ended someone's life. Someone young.   
It didn't matter to him.   
He sighed and unlocked his apartment door. The lights were on, and it blinded him for a moment. After his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he took off his jacket, threw it over his bed. His shirt was stained with blood, he took it off, his face crumbling with a mix of disgust and delight.   
It was proof he didn't make mistake and that he was one at the same time.   
He threw it away.   
He walked to the kitchen with his phone in hand, footsteps echoing down the hall, ghosts of shadows dancing behind him. The kitchen was a mess. He ignored it as usual and opened the fridge, helping himself with a glass of cold water.   
Then he made his way to the bathroom, showering under the sprinkling water, drops of it rolling down his back. His legs ached, he seated himself on the porcelain tub and let the water wash away everything. His numbness, his guilt, how lonely he was, how much he didn't matter and how meaningless his power was.   
He drowned his demons.   
It was just that easy. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

He had been watching him for a couple of days now, almost a week. He was cautious, always keeping his distance. The coffee shop down the street was kind enough to introduce Dan to his next victim, a kind blue eyed boy.   
It wasn't hard to identify him, he was famous in some way, he always had people around, surrounding him like a protective circle.   
He had something about him, Phil Lester, something Dan couldn't figure out. He didn't like complicated. He killed for ease and he killed with ease. Anything out of that line was foreign to Dan. Somehow intriguing.  
He decided to wait for a couple of more days. Then he would kill him. He wasn't any different than the others. It would be as easy and as pleasing. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn't as easy, but it was happening. Something was pulling him back and he couldn't, wouldn't dare to touch Phil. They were at a bar, his friends all drunk and laughing as Dan watched from a couple feet away.   
No one knew what he was about to do.   
Not even him.   
His posture and sarcastic grin, I'm perfect and can and will do anything mindset, he was all set for it.   
But his mind, in reality, wasn't. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

He felt the inside pocket of his leather jacket, securing the pocket knife.   
He was going to have fun today.   
Nothing was going to stop him, not the memories that came back with those eyes and not the kind smile Phil had.   
All his friends left earlier than Phil, making a very big mistake of leaving him alone with Dan following him home.   
Phil pulled his jacket over his arms, rubbing his hands together against the cold wind, then he put his phone his pocket and started walking.   
Dan followed him with hands in his pockets, carelessly.   
He could sense Phil's fear as he got closer, almost too close. He wasn't nervous, his grin still fresh on his face, his eyes a different shade of cold.   
He prepared himself, like a wild animal prepared to attack its prey. He squared his shoulders and pushed Phil into the alley with his hand on his back.   
Phil gasped, his eyes darkened with fear as he looked at Dan's hands as he switched the knife, the silver metal glistening under the street light.   
Phil backed away, putting his arms up for defence. It just fuelled Dan more.   
They weren't supposed to fight back.   
He squeezed the knife between his fingers and pushed his knee up, kicking at Phil's legs, laughing at the sight of him landing on the ground. Phil winced, scrambling away from Dan. He opened his mouth but he was too shocked to speak.   
So instead Dan spoke for him.   
"How are we doing today?" His grin deepened. A flash of pain clouded his vision when he saw the spark in Phil's eyes.   
He had to remind himself.   
I am Dan Howell and I am indifferent to human suffering and am strong enough to take their lives without shedding a single tear. I have the ability to hurt them. And they don't have the ability to stop me. I am Dan Howell and I am doing great things.   
"Do you wanna have some fun? What was it?" He paused, enjoying the shock on Phil's face. "Ah, Phil. Lester."  
He inched closer to Phil's face, feeling his raspy warm breath on his neck. He dragged the knife over his skin. Not slicing, just scratched it a little, his smile spreading.   
Then Dan lashed at him, watching as his head pushed back with such force. He smiled at the sight of blood dribbling down Phil's chin.   
He hit again, and again. He used his knees to hold Phil down as he took his anger, hatred and poisoned mentality on the blue eyed boy.   
Without feeling a single thing.   
Success maybe, victory. But nothing else.   
"Who...who are you? Wha-t what do you want f-from me?"  
His voice made Dan pull back, it was something else. He could swear he had heard it before, like a song, or in a dream. His voice was as familiar as the smell of leather on him and he gasped audibly.   
If flowers or the smile on a child's face was a sound, it would be Phil's.   
And for someone like Dan that never saw this much gentleness even at the sight of multiple deaths, Phil was the oddest thing he had seen.  
"Please...don't hurt me, please." Phil begged.   
He couldn't bear to look at his eyes. Too much suffering, too much pain. All that he had caused.   
"P-please."  
Dan's mouth was dry, it felt like sucking on cotton and his throat felt numb.   
"D-don't hurt me. I... I don't want to die please."  
"You aren't going to."  
He was shocked at the words his own mouth spoke. He had lost control of his limbs and he stated blankly as he pulled Phil up to his feet.  
"I just lost...I just lost myself."   
Dan ran.   
He ran before Phil could ask questions and he ran before he saw more pain in those blue eyes. He ran, with tears running down his face, not knowing how he lost his control that easily. He ran home, locked the door frantically and clenched his fists, a throbbing pain inside his head, fingers clumsily searching for the light switch.   
He laid his back on the wall, tried to calm his breathing. But all that did was to worsen the pulsating fear inside his chest, thumping its fists to get out.   
He was sixteen all over again. Memories floated around his vision as his pain spiralled itself into a silent gnawing whisper. All those years he tucked deep inside his mind, unfolded themselves in front of him.   
All the people he hurt, all the lives he ended.  
He was a monster, hunting innocent souls in dark alleys, following their last breaths before he drew his knife and sliced just below their chin, the side of his mouth pulling up, smiling at the sight of blood. He was as insensitive as he could be, the silent begging or cries or tears didn't get to him, he didn't wince upon seeing life leave their now empty bodies, another extra gone from this earth, purposeless. He was born to do this, born for the sensation it gave him when he laid his hand on the cold body, lifeless.   
Killing was his nature. And these tears rushing down his face, they were foreign to him.   
He wiped his eyes, welcomed with another waterfall coming down, all the pain he repressed for all those years, rushing out to meet the air he breathed. He gasped.   
He remembered his second victim. Leanne. She was beautiful, with piercing blue eyes staring deep into him on that cold November night at some café. His first instinct was to drag her outside, behind the old building, just by the trash cans. He didn't know what she was expecting but it probably wasn't death on the ground, snow stained with her deep red blood, eyes staring up at the night sky lifeless.   
That was his second, that was when he found out how good it felt to take a life from someone, leave them completely vulnerable as he planned their destruction in a matter of seconds, and not just a form of self defence. Death wasn't supposed to hurt the killer, he learned.   
He was precise, he never missed to draw the perfect line, parallel to their mouth, always two inches below where their chin ended, or right over their heart, between the ribcage, a little to the left.   
The accuracy gave him pleasure, his ability to stay calm at the sight of death. He was so used to it.   
But now all he did was to demand answers, where was all this pain coming from? And how vulnerable he was, lying on the ground with his knees tucked below his chin, his left hand encircling the knife, the sharp metal cutting into his skin. He was weak. Every tear that ran down his face proved how weak he actually was, his weak mind couldn't handle it anymore.   
He tried to remember, just exactly how many people he had killed, how many lives he took, how many times he watched the blood soak into his victims' clothes, another stain that wouldn't come off from somewhere deep inside him.   
He tried to remember, their names. They were actual people, not a toy for his satisfaction, not a stationary background at his warped sense of life. They were actual human beings with plans for their nonexistent tomorrows.  
He tried to remember the last look on their faces, were there ever relieved that someone did them a favour and took their lives instead of them doing it with some pills and maybe the same kind of knife used to slit the wrists.   
To Dan, unlike other killers, death wasn't pretty, it wasn't striking or angelic or mesmerising. It was the very definition of pain, the word he often seemed to forget, the word he often experienced as a whole.   
He thought he was heartless, that his mind didn't have any remorse or guilt upon what he had done. In reality, he wasn't a poetic metaphor. He was sadistic, unforgiving, vicious, inhuman, violent and wild.   
He didn't remember just how easily he had become that, he had become the person he feared the most. He was just the shadow of his own father, mimicking his every move, a broken puppet under his hold.   
He was terrified all his life, always hiding behind lies and forcing a smile, everything around him a broken disaster.   
He remembered his broken bones, bruises he had to hide from the people around, scars still lingering around his skin, reminding him that even though the dismal source of his pain now laid six feet under, he was never free from his touch, never quite escaping the hell house he lived in for sixteen years.   
He ran his hands over the small scar just below his temple, almost faded. He remembered. His father, that day, everything.   
He remembered how weak he had been, quivering at the sight of his sorry excuse for a father, never straining against his father, never trying to escape.   
He was the victim once. His own father, his own flesh and blood had taught him the superiority it gave you when you hurt the person in front of you.   
He remembered the the taste of blood inside his mouth, his nose probably broken, how he numbed himself as his father kept on screaming, hitting Dan's head into the wall next to his bed.   
He remembered his dad leaving bruises on his arms, where his fingers dug down in his skin, he remembered his breath being knocked out of him as his father's knee connected his stomach, the sharp stinging pain right above his eyebrow, the copper taste. Every memory he had with his father consisted of when he was a little kid and his dad came home drunk and when he had some sense in him to talk back, to tell him to stop. Every memory he had with his father was pain.   
He remembered climbing on his dad's lap and crying, feeling guilty over the cuts on his knuckles, ignoring his own pain. He remembered the tears falling on his dad's hands as he pushed Dan away. Dan was five then. It had been twenty years ever since and Dan learned that there is no such thing as goodness in people, even the kindest of the people have it in themselves to push a little crying kid away.   
Maybe that was why he couldn't hurt Phil, when he looked into his eyes and heard his voice, he knew there was no way he could have a drop of evil in him. And he felt worthless, what was his worth if he was incapable of loving and couldn't see the goodness in anything.   
He remembered coming home with an award in his hand, his dad showing no interest, not even offering a smile.   
He remembered when he was sixteen, when his dad was drunk, and took everything out on him as his mother watched, his brother clinging to her blue skirt.   
He remembered his dad kissing the top of Adrian's when he left Dan's room, he remembered his fingers over his bruises, trying to feel something. Anything.   
He remembered not being able to move his fingers, pain pulsing from every part of his body, shivering. He remembered how his mother watched from the door, with a sad smile on her face, mouthing that she loved Dan, with every sense of being she had. He remembered how wrong she was, how love required sacrifice and if she had loved him, she would help. She would brush the hair out of his face and tend to his wounds and wrap a blanket around him and tell him she loved him, singing a lullaby so that he would sleep fine.   
But all that he knew was pain and all that he was told were lies. Life was the destruction itself and the only way to escape the pain was to destroy what he could find.   
That was all he knew.   
All the deaths were a thrill for Dan, except for one. His first; that one time he killed not out of instinct but for self defence, and that one time he felt like killing to protect himself was despicable, not something that made him strong, that one time he ran from his past for four years, until it caught up to him in the eyes of the stranger at a coffee shop.   
She had the same eyes his dad had. Blue, striking, kind at times, begging Dan to stop as life left them.   
He searched for those eyes everywhere, he made it his sole purpose to pick out the faulty ones.   
His self hatred poured out in the form of wet, warm tears, the cuts on his hands staining the bedsheets, showing how capable he was of being hurt. Not vulnerable maybe, but he totally wasn't indestructible.   
He was the very definition of destruction. Let it be self destruction or taking lives, his nightmares lived on.   
He was a fucked up human being, having killed his own father, he was the one who tore apart their family, then tore apart many others.   
He wasn't normal, he wasn't anything.   
He couldn't even kill right.   
He didn't have a voice to ask for help, didn't have the courage to run back to Phil and ask him how he had done what he had been trying to do for years. To stop.   
He was never strong, he had created an illusion to fool himself, to claim to have won this war. But he never saw that he had already lost that night, when he pushed the bread knife in his father's skin, right over his heart that failed to love Dan.   
It didn't make any sense, why it didn't feel good, why Dan wanted to dig a hole and get lost the moment his father took his last breath.   
Maybe it was proof that he was just like his father, the man he feared the most, or maybe he had loved his father enough to feel guilty about his death when he should have felt relieved.   
Both he didn't want to admit.   
He wasn't a monster and he didn't care for one.   
That night he cried himself to sleep, old wounds bleeding, the memories of his father, the memories of the lives he took, how incapable he was of loving, and every part of his body aching at the thought of himself being inhuman.   
Tomorrow, he would start again.   
He was human, very human that once tasted pain, he was a human that knew the thin line between aspiring to be God and just simply hoping to be strong after sixteen years of weakness. He was human, weak, but he was human.   
And again, he would do it again, without fear and guilt. Phil, he was just a mistake, one that would haunt him until the day he died, filed under the very long list of failures Dan had. But still, he wouldn't dream of his eyes and he would do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/ Comments/ Any kind of feedback would help my writing <33


End file.
